


Their Hands Heavy

by S J Hartsfield (abbykate)



Series: Hide and Seek [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, My darling, Of the precipice, We were on the brink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbykate/pseuds/S%20J%20Hartsfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...because the truth is all that matters in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Hands Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the scheme: Jill decided that she, abbykate, and S.J. Hartsfield should all take lines from Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" and use them as titles for drabbles. They each picked five. They will be posted as a series, in the order in which they fall in the song.

Breath.

Steady, unsteady (mostly un), in and out as they watch each other.  They don’t touch (not yet, but he knows they will), just look, watch, _see_ as though for the first time.  The high is amazing, like nothing he’s ever felt (untrue, very much like something he’s felt – synthetic, false, unrightfully gained through sharpness and fogs of disappointment).  Endorphins serotonin dopamine the words scatter through his mind and rise up until he can’t see them any longer and anyway his eyes are busy looking at John, not at words, not at cracks in walls stains on cuffs nervous twitch of an eyelash –

Weight (wait).

John’s hand, of course, he’s moved, a hand on his shoulder sliding up, catching his collar but the soft fabric yields, bends, and he’s past it, skin on the skin of his neck.  His hands are rough and what would it be like to touch someone like this?  He can find out, easily, and he will.  He’ll catalogue the data as soon as he can remember how his arms function.  John’s fingertips scrape a line down his face, so gentle, unintentional heat following their path until ghosting over his lips (ghosting? sentiment, metaphor, definitely not his area but all he can think of is that word when it happens, a spirit phantasm shade of something that tastes like John) and following down his chin to his neck.  John exhales, once, a gasp in reverse, and his eyes are wide and the light from the window is actually, literally reflecting in them (not entirely metaphor).  (Partially metaphor.)  (It’s hard to tell.)

He finds the pulse at the base of his throat and it has an unfortunate way of telling, betraying, screaming his damnable anxiety because this is new, experience he never thought he’d need, information that has no place in his hard drive, there are no folders here, no entries for this kind of excitement, for the way his skin twitches and leaps and pulls itself toward John, for his lips on his.  And always, always the touch, the heat of his palms against his body, their hands twining and grasping and gathering close, carving _mine, mine, mine_ into each other because the truth is all that matters in the end.


End file.
